


succ

by twofoldAxiom



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Anal Sex, Biting, Blood As Food, Blood Dishes, Blood Drinking, Blood Kink, Blood Loss, Bondage, Cowgirl Position, Danger Kink, Domesticity, Exsanguination, Horror, Human/Vampire Relationship, M/M, Mildly Horrifying, Oral Sex, Power Bottom, Power Bottom Karkat, Rope Bondage, Sloppy Makeouts, Temporary Character Death, Unsafe Sex, Vampire Bites, Vampire Karkat, Vampire Sex, Vampires, Vampirism As Horror, autassassinophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-01
Updated: 2018-02-12
Packaged: 2019-03-12 05:49:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13541037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twofoldAxiom/pseuds/twofoldAxiom
Summary: Your name is Dave Strider and your boyfriend is a vampire. Naturally, this makes its way into your sex life, because you're a complete goddamn wreck of a human being.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Essynkardi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Essynkardi/gifts).



> Written for Essy because he gave me twenty bucks one time and I didn't want to waste it. Extra words because it felt too short otherwise.
> 
> Note: This is really fucking dumb. It's meant to be funny and sexy and maybe a little worrying, but it's not a deep, dreary thing like my last fic was. Enjoy!
> 
> Note 2: Autassassinophilia is the kink for near-death situations, so look out for that. Please tell me if there's more that needs tagging, or if I miss any typos.
> 
> Note 3: I'm aware that this was originally meant to be 6k words long but there wasn't much else I could do with it without it feeling like a drag, so, I apologize and I will supplement the missing 2k words with another story, possibly continuing the adventures of Dave and Karkat, vampire boyfriends.

“And you’re sure you want to do this?”

“You’re still asking after, what, the fiftieth time _tonight_ ? Of course I am, what kind of a diaper-shitting scrub do you think you’re dealing with, backing out when you’ve got me tied up and pants down and practically gagging for it, goddamnit Vantas just fucking _bite me_.”

You’re not actually as confident as you’re trying to talk yourself up to be, and it looks like Karkat knows that, but that doesn’t actually matter because you’re so worked up you could cum on the spot if he so much as nibbled you. He’s still hesitating, still sitting on the edge bed and leaning his elbows on his knees and his teeth catch the moonlight in a way that makes a shiver run up your spine.

Your cock is so hard it almost hurts, and you can’t even touch yourself because he’s so careful with you that he’s got you tied to the bed in four places, spread eagle and naked and waiting because doesn’t want you thrashing when he bites down or you might really bleed out. He used the silky rope you tie curtains with from fabric stores, did the research on the knots so they wouldn’t tighten if you pulled too hard but they’re tight enough that you can’t even pull an inch in any direction.

He’s actually willing to indulge your fucking danger fetish and the reality is that you could very well die tonight, and somehow that’s got your dick harder than a first grader’s second attempt at brownies. You can see a bead of pre sitting right on the slit. You know he can probably hear your heartbeat. It’s humiliating.

You can’t get enough.

And if you weren’t tied down, you would follow his hand with your hips when he runs the cool pad of a single finger up the underside of your dick. “God _damnit_ , Karkat, I can’t _take this_ , you _tease._ ”

Sometimes you also hate him, like when he won’t _fucking bite you already._

“You can wait a couple fucking minutes to put your life on the line, Dave. Much as I believe I have _some_ self control, I’ve read enough erotic horror to know this is one, a bad idea, and two, _possibly the last time we’ll ever get to fuck, if your stupid ass doesn’t sit fucking still,_ or God forbid, _turn._ ” He does it again, the bastard. His fingers are so cold, practically bloodless and kind of creepy, but the contrast with the intense heat between your legs only makes you want it more.

He huffs and narrows his eyes, but you can see his pupils are blown wide, hungry, practically starving probably. “And possibly the last time we ever get to fuck even if _that_ , because of the whole, you know, _being a vampire_ thing. I have to _make sure I don’t overdo it_ , which considering the whole thing about being new to this? I might not be able to do. _Asshole_.”

“I know you are but what am I?” You glare at him, and kind of wish you had your shades, because you know you’re a mess right now and you’re sweaty and flushed and there’s no way he doesn’t know how into this you are, how scared you are, how he could rip open your throat and your dying thoughts would be how hard you came.

Your name is Dave Strider and your boyfriend is a literal vampire. He’s not a fetishist, and he’s not sick in the head, or at least any more sick in the head than you are (and you’re pretty sick in the head, all said, because you put him up to this), but he is in fact a creature of the night with a really bad addiction to blood that you’d initially assumed was a meth problem.

It’s only been a few months since he was turned, he told you, and you remember that pretty vividly for a lot of reasons. The shit you put him through, the shit _he_ put you through.The way it only got wrapped up further in the weird, probably somewhat suicidal need to have him do this to you.

You would apologize except you’re not really sorry at all. You’ve finally convinced him, sort of, that you think this the hottest thing ever—  shut up it’s not a Twilight phase—  and you legitimately get off on near death experiences of the supernatural sort.

You dated a firebreathing dragon once. It’s been a weird year.

Karkat’s vampirism might actually be _less_ of a threat to your life expectancy, and it’s not like he hasn’t bitten you and had himself a snack before.

You’d wanted it then, too, but he didn’t know that. You were goading him as soon as you figured out what he was, and then he snapped and pushed you against the wall and nearly broke your neck in his haste to get at your carotid artery. He’d been traumatized by nearly drinking you to death, and you’d nearly died with your dick harder than it had ever been in your short time on God’s good earth.

And now you’re asking him to do it again, and hoping you get lucky in more ways than one.

You groan and bite your lip as his finger swipes over the pre at the tip of your cock, smearing it around the cap a little. Your hips ache where you’re straining to get more contact, the smooth rope digging into your wrists and ankles. “ _Please, holy shit._ ”

“I’m _getting there,_ don’t be so impatient for me to drain you so dry an Egyptologist would have a hard time identifying your sorry remains.” He narrows his eyes again, brushes some of his hair out of the way, and starts crawling forward between your legs. Your cock juts up at an angle, heavy with blood that you know he wants just as much as you know he wants to drink it and wow that almost killed your boner a little, the thought of those sharp teeth sinking into valiant Private Richard.

You probably shouldn’t think these things right before sex. You want him to bite you, but the pain of having him suck your dick like _that_ would cross right over into Nopesylvanian territory in half a second flat.

But then that thought actually kind of recedes back a little and you wonder if it might be worth the initial sting because he’s looking up at you from between your legs and his fingers are settling on your hips. He must see the apprehension on your face, or his weird vampire powers are informing his decisions somehow, because he pauses when you make eye-contact.

“Yes, I can hear your fucking heartbeat in your dick. It’s not funny.” He says, which only makes you snort-giggle unattractively, the asshole _knew_ saying it like that would have that effect. “Could you do me a favor and talk me out of this right now? Like, no joke, last fucking chance to get out of this before I completely lose the will to actually resist, and you’ve said it yourself, I’ve had doubts this far.”

“Nope.” You can’t help but be a little smug, just a little. “You’re getting no support on this front, bro; after all this set up, the war presses on and you gotta fuckin’ ma _aaar-shit!_ ”

The bastard cuts you off by pushing your dick past his lips. Any annoyance you felt is immediately subsumed in the sudden rush of _wantneedfuckme_ **_please_ ** as he pins your hips in place with surprisingly strong hands, and you're sure there are going to be bruises there later but you can't bring yourself to care, you just want _more._

 _“Karkat,_ Jesusfucking _Christ,_ if you stop I'm gonna fucking _die,_ oh, Jesus, _shit,_ ” You aren't entirely sure what you're saying but it feels absolutely true whatever it is, and it encourages Karkat to purr and moan around your aching cock, so you keep it up, straining against your bonds and his hold on you, straining to get deeper into his mouth, deep as you can go. You feel his nails digging into your skin and the sting only makes it better, your toes curling as you whimper and swear under him. You wish you weren't tied up so you could grab his hair.

You hiss as he suddenly takes you to the base, gulping around you wet and tight. You feel like it’s going to end then and there when he starts pulling back, the seal of his lips wet with spit and so good it’s downright obscene.

You make a wanting groan in the back of your throat when he pops off the tip at long last and it leaves you bereft of that slick warmth, leaves you aching even more than you were earlier. You breathe out, chuckling incredulously. “ _Fuck_ , hey, get back here you traitor.”

He smiles down at you and runs a finger up the tip of your dick again, like he did earlier except now he’s had his mouth all over your junk and his finger comes away slightly wet with a mix of your pre and his own spit. You wish he’d take hold of you again, but he has other plans, and you're helpless but to watch him act it all out.

Just like you wanted, of course, but admittedly, you feel less like a winner and more like a depraved slut right now. At least the whole thing comes together in a way you think you’ll never get enough of; when he gets off the bed to strip, you find yourself hypnotized by the fluid play of light across every dip and twist of flesh he reveals, the dark scattering of hair just above his low-slung pants as he pulls off his shirt, and then that perfect ass when he turns around to pull his pants down.

“If you keep this up, I'll probably die from this boner before you even nick me.” You say, breathy with incredulous, hungry laughter that you think makes you sound like a nervous addict. You tilt your head back and groan, only to look back down when you feel the bed dip again.

He crawls over you and kisses you, languid and slow, lips slightly too cool and teeth slightly too long. He tastes faintly salty in a way that should be disgusting but with knowing what it is you just moan into his mouth, sucking on his tongue as he pulls away from you and runs a hand down your skin. You arch up to meet his touch as far as you can but it’s feather-light all the same.

“Still a fucking tease.” You mutter.

“Shut the fuck up.” He purrs, mouthing against your neck. You feel your pulse quicken when he swipes his tongue across your throat, sucks on a spot above where you’re fully aware an artery is from the way your pulse drums against the faint pressure there. You feel his nails tickling along your sides a little with how lightly they scrape down your skin, and in your head you can picture almost perfectly the raised, reddish lines he’s leaving along your ribs.

It’s distracting enough that you almost don’t realize the pressure is building, two sharp points digging into your skin, and when you _do_ realize it, the skin finally _gives._

“ _Shit!_ ” Karkat straddles you as you try to buck from the sudden pain; you’re trembling all over as his tongue rasps over the skin caught between his teeth but holy _shit_ , this hurts just as bad as you remember it hurting, and this time you can’t grab his arms or his shoulders or his non-existent clothes. You arch your back and his solid weight keeps you down on the mattress, your fingers grasping uselessly at the sheets as you gasp for air.

You moan, your dick twitching eagerly against his, the both of you hard against each other. You think it can’t get any more intense and then he rolls his hips down against you, grinding the both of you together. You can feel an orgasm coming to hit you like a snapping line, tension curling tight in the pit of your gut, and your moaning only gets louder, interspersed with swearing and a litany of just his name, over and over.

Somehow you don't come even when you usually would have finished, and yet it feels like you’re coming all over yourself while Karkat moans against your neck. Sticky heat that burns on the edge of cold prickles in your fingertips and it just doesn’t stop, electricity dancing in the edges of your vision. Your mouth hangs open as you force yourself to breathe, your eyes rolling up in your head.

He grinds into you again and you whimper; you stop fighting his grip as he ruts against you and feeds, and maybe the room is getting a little grey around the edges but you don’t want it to end. Your muscles ache from the strain of trying to press against him, trying to get closer to him as if you even _could_ , crisscrossing ropes digging into your skin like his hands on your shoulders.

You will _definitely_ find bruises in the morning. The thought floats idly by, easily swallowed up by the rush of everything else happening to you; the sound of your own ragged breath, the metallic smell hanging in the air, the way Karkat is, you know, practically riding your dick.

His mouth leaves the wound so he can murmur into your ear, his voice husky with need and his breath heavy with your own blood, but no matter how much you want to hold onto whatever he might be saying just now, your thoughts are slowed down like they’re swimming through jello. You want to ask him to say that again, but what comes out of your mouth is, “Don’t stop,”

He gets up on his knees,though you can only tell because you feel the bed sinking a little further somewhere in the vicinity of your hips. His hand wraps around your cock, wet with spit or at least you really (not really, you sick bastard) hope it’s spit or he’s secreted away a travel bottle of lube in the corner of the bed without you noticing. It wouldn’t be hard with the state you’re in right now, the world soft and indistinct, the pounding of your heart thrumming intensely in what feels like every vein.

He groans above you and you feel the bed bounce as he sinks down on your cock, your thoughts spinning faster, _that has to hurt_ and _holy fuck that is the hottest thing ever_ in varying degrees, amplified by the feeling of him squeezing around you.

He’s warmer than you remember from the last time you fucked him, maybe because of your own blood running through him. There’s color in his cheeks even in the dark, and his own cock is still sticking up between the two of you. You flex your fingers stiffly, wanting to take hold of him, but they’re cold right now. The sheets are sticky under your back, and you roll your shoulders to try and get some of that stiffness out to no avail.

All your focus shifts to Karkat when you feel him finally take you to the base, his claws digging into your chest as he balances himself precariously above you. He tilts his head back, eyes fluttering closed, lower lip caught between his teeth (stained slightly red still, you see a trickle of red on the corner of his mouth, and you’re not sure if that’s yours or his. You want to lick it off either way.)

 _Then_ he starts riding you, slowly at first, just swiveling his hips in tight little circles that make you see almost painful bursts behind your eyes. His thighs tense as he lifts himself up and then relax as he goes back down, repeats agonizingly slow, even though you can tell he’s picking up speed, and you’re not going to last much longer like this, if you thought earlier was good then it’s amazing you haven’t passed out from this yet; he has no right to feel this good after chewing on your neck like that.

You were absolutely counting on it, from the very beginning, but that’s not the point. The bed creaks under the two of you, and you can’t even hear yourself anymore as you moan for him, as he does the same for you, and you two- the both of you, the wordiest motherfuckers you could possibly ever know- are reduced to sex noise, breathy approximations of swearing and each others’ names.

You’re not sure when he starts bouncing on your cock but the sight of _his_ dick right there with nobody to give it a little loving makes you want it more than air. Which is probably a good thing, because the ropes across your chest and the way he’s bouncing in your lap is making it harder to breathe. Your head is spinning, empty, you can only see him at this point and you’re about to burst; you’re like a ketchup packet under an unforgiving heel and that heel is your impending orgasm.

He must notice where your eyes are focused because he leans back and gives you a better view, though it must be Hell on his back and hips to do so. One hand, and you see that it isn’t stained with blood like you’d expected it to be, goes up to his collarbones before he slides it down his chest, his belly, the trail of hair above his cock, and then you almost finish then and there as he starts stroking himself while fucking himself on you.

Still stroking, he leans over you, his hand working away as fast as he can get it, sweat beading on his brow from the effort of balancing on you and touching himself and _fucking_ you, and the look on his face is one you want burned into your memory forever, pupils dilated and lips parted and hungry for everything you can give him.

He kisses you, tasting of blood and cum, and it’s absolutely fucking disgusting but you come right then and there, screaming against his lips as his tongue plunges into your mouth, spreading the taste while you convulse. It’s the most intense orgasm you’ve ever felt, like a full-body shockwave that starts from your junk and radiates outward, bouncing against the boundaries of your body like it’s trying to rip its way out of you, and it’s so good you’re left speechless and limp and barely breathing.

Unsurprisingly, _then_ you pass out. You don’t even realize you’re passing out until the static closes in and you hear Karkat asking if you’re still there, muffled but rising in panic as you go under.

You don’t get to think anything before the next thing you know, your alarm’s going off and you have a headache like someone gave a hangover the keys to a wrecking ball.

Somehow when you wake up it’s morning, and you’re not tied up, but holy _fucking_ shit everything is sore. The sheets are an unsalvageable mess, blood and sweat and cum, and you resolve to burn them later. Your mouth still tastes like blood and sex, and your skin prickles, cold and itchy, probably because you need a shower. You slept in that, you _absolutely_ need a shower, and why the fuck are the lights so bright? Did he leave the lights on after getting _himself_ washed up last night?

Rude.

“Mmmrgh… Karkat?”

It’s probably sweet, in a sappy, kind of creepy way, that that’s the first person, the first word, that comes to mind when you wake up feeling like Hell.

You hear shuffling in the sheets and suddenly you have a much warmer body pressed up against you, gripping you _inhumanly_ tight while Karkat sobs against your shoulder. You pat him on the back but it is _way_ too early for this, especially without your shades to block all this goddamn light.

You shush against his hair, rubbing his back while he clings to you. “Karkat- hey, Karkat, shh, it’s fine, what’s going on? What happened last night?”

He sobs angrily, clinging tighter. “You _died_ , you asshole!”

It takes a few seconds for you to catch up with what he said, whereupon that snapping line metaphor whirls back around and hits you in the face so hard you hear a record scratch in the back of your mind.

“What?”

“I said you fucking died, Dave; I _knew_ this would happen!” He actually smacks you on the chest, though he’s finally stopped crying, hiccuping now, his tears warm on your too-cold skin. “And don’t say you just passed out, because I thought that until I realized you weren’t fucking _breathing._ ”

You curl an arm around his shoulders and try to process that. Mostly your brain grinds to a halt at the end of the sentence _You died_.

“Say that again, but slower.” You say, and then wince when you open your eyes again. “And maybe less loud. I feel like I drank a whole bar dry last night.”

“That’s probably because I drained you fucking dry without noticing. You’re lucky I managed to pick up on it before you went off entirely, or you wouldn’t be here right now.” He’s still curled against you, bright and warm, and you realize you’re thirsty as Hell, too.

“So what, you’re saying I’m a vampire now?” You chuckle, and then he bursts into tears again and you’re the asshole, it is you, you are the gaping asshole in the ass-end of the Universe. You made your bloodsucker boyfriend cry, and it’s all because you wanted to get your rocks off to him draining you like one of those plastic juice bags with the little straws.

Speaking of which, still thirsty.

“Karkat,” You start, petting his hair. “Karkat. Hey, I’m sorry. I don’t know what the fuck happened, but I’m sorry. And I really need a drink.”

He sniffles, looking up at you. His face is still flushed and his eyes are bloodshot, and you realize he must have stayed up all night worrying if you’d ever wake up. It’s no wonder he’s a wreck right now. His blood- _your_ blood, last night- seems to radiate a new, eerily seductive warmth against you.

You push it out of your mind and kiss him on the nose.

“We’ll be fine.” You say. “I’ve always been a pasty weirdo with a drug problem and terrible light tolerance.” You pet down his back until he stops shivering, murmuring into the top of his head. “It’s okay. You didn’t want me to go like that, I appreciate it.”

“I wish I hadn’t done this.” He says, miserably. “I should have backed out. Now you’re stuck like this.”

“Hey, come on, I pushed you into it.” You lean back against the headboard and rest your eyes in the comforting, reddish-grey darkness of your eyelids, where it burns somewhat less. When you open them again, he’s looking at you again, and the world is tinged slightly blue.

You’re so fucking thirsty it almost hurts. You try to stagger out of bed and almost fall over.

He catches you, thankfully, and drags you back to sitting down. You realize there’s a _lot_ more blood on the sheets than you initially thought.

But you’re distracted by him kissing you again, his mouth tasting sour with what you realize is blood, fresh and pungent.

You pull away, but it makes your mouth tingle. “Dude, what the fuck?”

“I did this.” He growls at you. “And you’re not talking me out of giving you something to tide you over until we can get some steak or something for later. Now shut up and kiss me.”

And, well, you’ve never really been one to resist kisses from your boyfriend. You lean in slower, though, and swipe your tongue against his lips, shivering as the blood makes every nerve prickle on the way down.

You are so fucked up.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continuation, because the previous chapter was 2k words short. Written for [Essynkardi](http://essynkardi.tumblr.com/).
> 
> I actually don't like this part nearly as much, but it's still alright I guess.
> 
> TW for actual vampire horror this time. Also ratha poriyal, which is definitely an acquired taste. This chapter's not necessary to read, you can skip it after you've read the first one.

So as it turns out, a lot of the things you hear about being a vampire are actual bullshit, so it’s not really a wonder anymore that Karkat was completely unable to figure out that he had vampirism when he got it.

You’ve seen him devour garlic-shrimp pizza like he’s making love to it, for one, and you’ve got a couple silver studs in your ears so silver obviously isn’t one of your weaknesses. You eat your ramen so salty that Rose says you’ll get kidney stones, and despite your best efforts you still smoke whenever you need to fidget, so fire isn’t doing anything that it wouldn’t otherwise do to you.

You’re not sure about the whole thing about being invited places, but you haven’t had to stop at any doorways yet.

There are other things that are maybe slightly more bullshit, but that has to do with them being  _ very  _ real instead. You’re mostly talking about the thirst for blood, which you’d heard Karkat describe before as like a disturbing, almost sexual addiction, and which you probably should have taken more seriously because  _ oh boy _ .

That does  _ not _ cover it.

You’ve been standing outside this Asian grocery like a dog tied to the bike rack for less than twenty minutes and you’ve already gone through the five stages of grief waiting for Karkat to come back. The back of your throat is so dry it hurts no matter how many sips you take from your gym bottle, and every time you have a drink, it only underlines how much it’s  _ not _ what you know you need. The evening air isn’t helping in the slightest, either, biting cold as it is.

Speaking of biting, you run your tongue across your upper teeth and feel the wicked sharpness of your new fangs. They’re not actually as sharp as you expected, but they’re still pointy and slightly serrated, perfectly made for letting blood. No wonder you died last night.

Totally worth it, though. Best orgasm ever.

You check your phone for the tenth time now. No messages, and it’s only been eleven minutes since you started checking at all. You know Karkat said it would take him about twenty to finish shopping for groceries, especially since he’d have to stock up on animal blood (and why the fuck does this grocery sell that in jugs, and congealed cubes in tupperwares, you are too much of a basic fucking White Boy TM for this shit), and he didn’t want you getting overwhelmed by being surrounded by people so soon after turning without more than a mouthful of his own blood to help with the symptoms.

(Actually, you recall Karkat mentioning that sometime ago, about the dishes he could make with blood. Something something it’s a thing in a lot of places, blah blah don’t be a squeamish toddler. At the time it turned your stomach, even when he explained it was because you live in an age where “skulking around melancholically like Kanaya’s foppish douchefucks is going to get me shot or arrested”. Now it just makes you hungry.)

You’re snapped out of the mental image of some kind of blood curry or whatever the fuck by the realization that the smell of blood isn’t just in your mind right now. Someone, very close by, is bleeding.

You follow the scent like a cartoon rabbit after the smell of carrot stew, practically floating with your nose in the air except not really because that’s fucking dumb. From an outside point of view, you probably look more like a lost heroin addict, like you’d thought Karkat was when the two of you first met. The pull under your skin is probably similar enough, guiding you onwards.

You hear a groan when you enter the alleyway and the smell is stronger here, not by much but enough to make your eyes dilate. It helps you adjust to the dark much faster than you expect to, your vision sharpening faster than your mind can catch up with what you're looking at.

So, you stare. You just stare at the scene in front of you until you hear another groan. Then the details burst into a coherent picture, blood on the grimy wall, blood pooling in a puddle and the hand clutching a wound, bloodshot eyes looking up at you from the ground, glassy and exhausted.

“Call, call someone, please,” Every labored breath fills the air with more of the smell of blood. He's hurt bad, looks like the wound is somewhere in the vicinity of his ribs; you're no doctor, but you don't have to guess that the blood on his breath probably means a punctured lung.

Why the fuck are you just standing there?

“ _ Please,”  _ He coughs raggedly, and you step forward on autopilot. The blood is still so fresh it splashes under your knees when you kneel beside the poor guy, so fresh it makes you dizzy.

He's weak and pliant under your hands, or maybe you’re stronger now, and you haven't picked up a shitty sword since you were fifteen, but all that strifing had to have some effect on you, didn't it?

More likely it's the vampirism. Whatever the fuck it is, magic or supervirus or some other handwavey bullshit.

“You'll be fine.” You murmur, and you're lying so blatantly through your teeth it would make you sick in any other circumstance. You turn him over and he makes a whimpering, gurgling noise, and your fingers are stained bright, searing red.

You bring one hand to your face and drag your tongue across your palm, purely on instinct. You hear a whimper, and you're not sure if it's you or him.

The blood spreads across your tongue, sour and salty, tasting completely unlike anything described in a shitty paranormal bodice-ripper. It's very recognizably the taste of blood and pavement, but you shiver like you’re staring down the barrel of a gun on a cold day. You swallow the sticky mouthful and to your distant horror your stomach  _ rumbles. _

Another whimper, a fearful “Oh my God,” as he tries to crawl away from you on his hands; your head spins as you reach forward and grab him by the collar, lift him like he weighs about as much as a feather pillow until you’re facing each other and you can count every vein in the whites of his eyes.

You feel sick; not the good kind of sick, not the dizzying rush of guilt and need you get when Karkat’s chewing dangerously close to somewhere vital as you let him feed off you. This makes you want to mumble sorry or drop him and bash your head against the wall, but you do none of those things and instead bring his neck to your mouth and  _ bite _ .

He doesn’t even have enough in him to scream, or maybe it’s the same effect as when Karkat bit you in an alley a few months ago. You don’t care; your mouth fills with the sour-salty taste of blood and you want to throw up, you have no idea how you’ve managed so far  _ not _ to throw up, except your body needs this like it needs water on a hot day and you can’t stop drinking, your tongue guiding the stream down your throat.

It’s disturbingly thick and warm, but your mind’s pretty much gone blank at this point; stays blank until the body in your hands goes limp and shivery. You suck a little on the wound and bite again when nothing more comes, though you can feel the fluttery almost-pressure of a heartbeat failing under your lips.

Your tongue rasps against cool, lifeless skin and you blink, once, twice, and  _ then _ it hits you like a sack of potatoes off the back of a truck. You drop the body- and it  _ is _ a body now, eyes shut and face papery with lack of blood, and you look at your hands and you can  _ see _ the blood you’ve taken, you can  _ watch _ it revitalizing what looked like frostbitten corpse fingers only minutes ago.

You fucked up. You fucked up  _ bad. _

“Dave, what the fuck.” You whirl around and Karkat actually flinches, hands full of groceries and face full of concern. You must look horrible, which makes sense since you just  _ committed a murder _ , and you’ve probably gotten your DNA all over this guy and oh god you’re going to go to jail and you don’t know how long you’ll last there, you can’t even spend twenty minutes without attacking some poor guy who was apparently mugged or some shit, you’re,

You’re,

“Shoosh, it’s okay, we’ll be fine.” Karkat is wiping smears of blood off your mouth with a baby wipe like a grandma cleaning off her grandkid’s ugly, shit-smeared face, and the gesture is so surprisingly tender that you can’t actually bring yourself to panic for a good few seconds. The new blood’s settling in your skin and your brain, making you feel floaty-warm as Karkat cleans you up.

He looks down at the body and scowls, and then rummages through his bags. You’re a little worried about what he’s going to do next, but he just puts on a pair of rubber gloves and stands over the body before kneeling down and pulls down the corpse’s shirt collar. 

Only then do you realize he’s alive. A dead body would still have the bite marks, and the twin puncture-wounds have closed up already, pinkish but fading fast. Karkat breathes a sigh of relief, gives you a dirty look over his shoulder.

“I’d rather  _ not _ have more vampires running around all over the place, so I hope you didn’t bleed into this guy, because I’m about to give him a little of  _ my _ blood in as careful a dose as I can. Anyway, he doesn’t have long, gimme a minute.” He says, as if this is completely normal; and it probably is normal, now, to him, even when you’re still getting used to it; he’s done this before and it shows in the disturbing efficiency he uses in cutting his thumb on a tooth, bleeding it into the guy’s mouth, and then looking for the guy’s phone and calling 911.

When he finishes the call, well, you weren’t listening to a word he said during but he looks back to you and pats your cheek again, even pulling you down for a quick peck on the lips. If his tongue swipes off the remainder of the blood on your lips, you pretend not to notice.

Paramedics arrive, you two get a few questions and are sent on your way; the guy’s alive, if barely, and Karkat’s cleaned you and what- who- you’d thought was a corpse up enough that it looks more like you just got splattered trying to fix the guy up.

You finally, finally relax when Karkat takes hold of your hand, but you relax in the way someone standing on tiptoe for five hours straight does, collapsing immediately. That is, you sag against his shoulders like a drunk man and just hold him, and he stiffens up but he lets you.

“I’m making ratha poriyal first off.” He says, when you recover, and he shows you a large  _ jug _ of labeled pig blood that you really wish you didn’t want to slurp up like chocolate milk. He smiles. “It’s freaky-looking, but it’s pretty much just blood curry. Think you’re not too white to have any?”

You snort as you watch the ambulance lights speed off. “Unless it has visible ears and snouts and whatever other weird shit you’ve got in that bag of guts over there floating around in it, I think I’m actually gonna be okay.”

“Good.” He says, hip-checking you, and checking for blood under your nails. “Because you’re gonna be practically living off it while I figure out some other stuff we can cook with blood and ears and other weird shit I’ve got in bags of offal.”

You hip-check him back, and the two of you lapse into comfortable silence until the lights of his crappy apartment are finally overhead. Your skin prickles at the thought of dinner. You really, really wish it didn’t.


End file.
